


Duetto Amoroso

by nocturnias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Parentlock, Romantic Fluff, Sexy, Sherlolly Valentine's Day Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/pseuds/nocturnias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly's Valentine's Day. Written for the Valentine's Day Ficathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duetto Amoroso

**Author's Note:**

> For Holnnes. I hope this is sort of what you wanted!

Sherlock stood in the doorway to the bedroom, watching Molly and Daniel as she cooed softly to their six-month-old son.  His alert brown eyes tracked her every movement and his perfect Cupid’s bow mouth was stuck in its usual pout.  Molly traced the outline of his lips with a fingertip and the pout disappeared, replaced by a gurgling laugh that made Daniel’s entire face light up.

Sherlock watched in fascination. After six months, he was as enchanted by their son as ever. He’d never thought he’d become a father; assumed, as he figured Mycroft did, that the Holmes line of extraordinary thinkers was going to cease once both of them were dead. But after Moriarty’s return and destruction (nine bullets, Sherlock wasn’t taking any chances that time, thank you very much) he’d found himself looking at Molly more and more. With a gentle push (hard shove) from John and Mary, he’d finally come to terms with the fact that he did, indeed, love Molly Hooper. And he was okay with that.

That had been eighteen months and four days ago. He’d barged into the morgue, taken Molly in his arms, kissed her until both of them were breathless, informed her of his feelings, and stated in no uncertain terms that her days of dating criminal masterminds and men who were beneath her intellect were over, that he was not a good man, but he was a better one and he wanted to try and make her happy. She’d moved into Baker Street a week later. Neither of them had felt it was rushing things. For God’s sake, Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson, he and Molly had known each other for six years. What was there to rush?

Sherlock smirked as he remembered the look on John and Mary’s faces when, six weeks and five days later, he’d told them he and Molly were going to start a family. There had been some minor concern on their parts (John had wanted him to piss in a cup and Mary had started to take his temperature), but once Sherlock assured them that it had been discussed and planned in meticulous detail, they were gobsmacked and chuffed to bits.

All through Molly’s pregnancy there had been jokes from John, Mary, and their other friends about how Elizabeth Watson was surely going to end up marrying Daniel Hooper Holmes once they were grown up. Sherlock had muttered something about the joys of being related to the Watsons and Molly had given him a good smack.

All their careful planning had gone to hell in a handbasket from the first moment they held their son. Sherlock had quickly realized that, no matter how prepared you thought you were, there was truly no way to control your life once a child came into it. And he was okay with that, too.

Molly turned to look at Sherlock.  “Bath and bed time for him,” she said softly.

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock said, moving forward and gently taking Daniel from her. “Why don’t you go relax in the sitting room? I have a surprise for you later.”

“Oh?” she said with a grin. “I thought you didn’t believe in celebrating: how did you say it? Oh, yes: ‘that abominable, fabricated holiday that is the epitome of sentiment,’ wasn’t it?” she smirked.

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t. But you do. And I do try on occasion to make you happy.”

“Yes, you do, and you succeed for the most part,” Molly murmured, brushing her lips lightly over his. “Thank you. I would like to finish that article on infectious diseases.”

“My heart leaps from your romantic inclinations,” Sherlock said wryly, returning the kiss for a moment before he disappeared into the bath, Daniel making happy sounds in his arms.

When their son was safely tucked into his bassinet (he’d likely be asleep for the night, if not most of it) Sherlock went to the sitting room. Molly was sitting in his chair, legs folded up beneath her, reading. She had taken out her contacts and was wearing her tortoiseshell glasses with the small oval lenses. She’d also changed into a dark green, silk chemise that clung and flowed in all the right places. Her hair was down and she absently twirled a lock of it between two fingers as she read.

Sherlock was certain he’d never fully appreciated the stereotype of the sexy bookworm until that moment.

She smiled and put down her journal as he bent to give her a gentle, lingering kiss. “All tucked in?” she asked.

“Mmm. He’ll likely sleep through the night. I made sure to tire him out a bit today.”

“Any special reason?” Molly teased, feigning nonchalance but she couldn’t keep from grinning.

“Oh, I think you know why,” he murmured against her mouth. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to participate in this ridiculous holiday that reeks of sentiment.”

“I’ve never wanted you more,” she told him, and Sherlock smirked.

He took his violin out of the case and prepared it. Molly took off her glasses and stretched in the chair, watching him in curiosity. He met her eyes as he raised the violin to his shoulder, and with a soft exhaled breath he began to play.

Molly had learned a lot about the violin over the years (no reason, thank you) and she’d heard Sherlock play a few dozen times since she’d met him. The piece was gorgeous, unfolding with a tinge of melancholy and restrained passion. It was haunting and sensual, and she couldn’t remember ever hearing him perform it before.

Then she realized why and her heart lurched wildly in her chest. He was playing _Duetto Amoroso_ by Niccolò Paganini.  Normally the piece would be accompanied by a guitar or piano part, but as Molly listened, enraptured, she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it with a million guitars or pianos.  Sherlock became the focal point of her universe as he played, fingers dancing, caressing the strings with the bow, and all the time his eyes blazed into hers.

When he finished, he slowly lowered the violin, setting it carefully back along with the bow into the case, still looking at her. He didn’t speak, but the music spoke for him as eloquently and powerfully as any words could.

This was how he felt about her. She, Molly Hooper, stirred this love and desire in this brilliant, maddening, beautiful man.

She rose from the chair just as he walked over to her. He slipped his arms around her waist and drew her close. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispered back. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and tugged on it until he moaned softly, then pulled back a bit and gazed up at him. “Would you like to see your present? Or would you like to shag me right here in your chair first?” she asked huskily.

“Let’s start with the shag. The present will still be there,” he said, trying and failing to suppress another moan as she licked the spot on his neck that always drove him mad.

He leaned down and kissed her. Just like that: no preamble, no warning. Just leaned in and claimed Molly’s mouth in a slow, sweet kiss.  It was so like him to just act on what he thought.  Molly was convinced that half the time Sherlock didn’t always have an answer, but he always _seemed_ too.  And for every time he did something horrible, he did something amazingly right.

And oh, that mouth on hers was pure heaven.  Soft but firm, with a taste of mint and chocolate.  And she responded, her tongue tangled with Sherlock’s, kissing him as though he was rain in the desert.

Dimly he felt Molly shift beside him and he broke off, staring questioningly down at her. She pulled him to her again and claimed his lips this time, parting them with her tongue and tasting him again as she deepened the kiss.  

Molly spread her fingers out against Sherlock’s chest; pressed one palm against his heart so she could feel its erratic beating.  It was a feeling that gave her a great measure of happiness every time she did it; every time she could feel his heart meant that he was still alive, still hers. Her fingers moved to Sherlock’s nipples, teasing them until they hardened beneath her touch.

As Molly stroked and explored a current arced between them, connecting them on a primitive, powerful level.  She decided it was time to give him a little more than the taste he’d had so far, and her fingers moved to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, eagerly pulling away the crisp material to find the smooth skin underneath. 

He allowed the exploration for a moment, then pulled away with a slight smile. For a second Molly felt an excruciating sense of loss, and then Sherlock grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes.  He slowly peeled off his shirt and raised his eyebrows, daring her, waiting.

He didn’t have to wait long. Molly gave it back to him in equal measure. Slowly she toyed with the tiny pearl buttons of the chemise, unfastening them unhurriedly, baring the tops of her creamy breasts, stopping a few buttons short of fully exposing paradise.  She smirked at his disappointed gaze, then moved to him to let him finish the job.  He continued, moving with the same slowness she did.  Sherlock made a throaty sound of appreciation as Molly slipped out of the garment, standing before him in all her nubile glory.  He reached for her, but she evaded him, smiled, and went to sit in the chair. She gave Sherlock a look that was pure mischief.  She was good: very good.  But he wasn’t about to let Molly get the better of him so easily. 

In one swift movement he pulled Molly out of the chair and gave her a hard kiss.  Molly’s hands rested on his shoulders, and Sherlock took them in his and guided them over his exposed chest, down his narrow hips, and to his groin. He trembled for an instant as one smooth, warm hand slipped into his trousers, then he sighed as Molly found what she was seeking.  Molly trailed her lips down his neck as she continued her wicked caress.

Sherlock gasped, then moaned softly.  So much physical stimulation, and if they kept it up he wouldn’t be able to make it last the way he wanted to.  So he gently removed Molly’s hand, carried it upwards, and brought it to his neck while bringing his hand to Molly’s right breast.  He cupped the left breast with his other hand, and embraced Molly’s mouth with his, ran his tongue against hers, catching her lower lip between both of his and sucking on it as he gently tugged on her nipples with his fingertips.

Molly took his left hand and brought it into the valley between her legs, moaning against his neck as Sherlock found the core of her heat and touched her languidly. Her hips thrust against his hand and she panted into his mouth as she kissed him again.  She was burning up; she wanted to scream and explode.

Sherlock made her catch fire all the time, yes.  But not like this, not the blaze that resulted from the sudden synchronized tinder of one mouth and two hands.  She wanted it to carry her up, up, until she was higher than the sky.  But she also didn’t want to be separated from him when she felt it.  So she pulled him off her and slid down to take Sherlock into her mouth.

He jumped at the feel of her taking him in; the hot wetness, her tongue swirling as though he was a treat she wanted to devour.  He stopped her and pulled the chemise off and trailed kisses along Molly’s face and neck.  She tugged at his trousers and Sherlock stripped them off along with his pants, then embraced Molly, his teeth raking the sensitive skin of her throat. 

After another moment it was more than Molly could stand, and she pulled away, bringing her arms around him. They stood that way for what seemed like forever, hearts racing, pulses pounding, awash in the symphony of desire they had orchestrated.   It was Molly who finally broke the spell by taking him by the hand and leading him back to the chair.

He sat, leaning back, legs pressed together as Molly straddled him. She wedged her knees so that they bracketed his hips, holding the top of the chair with one hand and Sherlock’s shoulder with the other as she slowly undulated and slipped him inside of her.

They fell into the instinctive rhythm that was theirs alone, a mix of familiarity and passion. She rode him like ocean waves, crashing him onto her shore again and again until she peaked with a shudder, gasping his name into his ear. He gripped her hips and thrust into her so strongly it would have lifted her off of him had he not been holding her so tight. He rocked against her, moaning her name as he bit the tender salty flesh of her neck and followed her into the tempest.

Afterwards, they sat curled up together in companionable silence, listening to the sounds of their breathing even out and the thudding of their hearts return to normal.  Sherlock pressed soft kisses along her nape and she sighed her appreciation, nuzzling her face against his. Another moment of quiet contemplation passed before he spoke.

“I believe you mentioned a present for me?”

Molly laughed. “All business now that the sex is finished?” she grinned at him. “It’s in the study. Are you going to deduce what it is?”

“I already know what it is. It’s a new microscope.”

Molly leaned back to frown at him. “You haven’t even seen the box. I know you haven’t. How did you deduce it with no evidence?”

He blinked at her. “I tricked John into telling me.”

“You- what? Sherlock Holmes!”

He shrugged.  “It was the most expedient solution. Oh; he asked me to tell you he’s sorry about that.”

“Not as sorry as he’s going to be,” she muttered. She sighed. What could you do when you were with a man like Sherlock except roll with it? Molly had learned long ago to pick her battles, and what was really worth getting upset over and what to let go. It turned out that most things should be let go with him, for her sanity’s sake if nothing else.

“Well now that you know, maybe I should take it back. Get you something that will be a real surprise. A box of sweets, maybe?”

Sherlock looked faintly ill.

“Or maybe a nice cuddly stuffed animal,” Molly continued. “You’d look adorable with a teddy bear.”

“There’s no need to be insulting,” he told her stiffly, and she giggled and pressed a kiss to his nose.

“Come on, then. I even brought home some virulent bacteria for you to look at with it.”

Sherlock beamed at her. “Oh, I do love you, Molly Hooper Holmes,” he murmured, just before he pressed a reverent kiss to her lips.

 

 


End file.
